


Innocent Sin

by Fiorenza_a



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1693736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiorenza_a/pseuds/Fiorenza_a
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sight of Illya laughing was a glorious thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Innocent Sin

  
 

The sight of Illya laughing was a glorious thing. The sight of Illya laughing because he was running along the beach, nothing but tensile energy and the breeze in his hair, was very heaven.

Napoleon peered over the sunglasses he had tipped to the end of his nose to watch the compact body the Russian rarely viewed as anything but a vehicle for action and Napoleon, as did so many others, speculated upon almost exclusively as a vehicle for sin.

Illya leapt into the air to overcome an obstacle present only in his exuberant imagination, twisting mid-flight to land panting and grinning directly at Napoleon.

Napoleon tipped his sunglasses back to cover his eyes and slid a little further down on the lounger, smugly proprietorial. The Russian would come to heel at that display. Flop down breathlessly on the ground beside him and prop his chin on the arm of the lounger. Napoleon would wrestle with the urge to lose his fingers in the salt stiffened hair and Illya would smile at him guilelessly with eyes as blue as the azure skies.

If he ever found the courage he would tilt his head and find those boyish lips and taste the purity of that smile. He already had the Russian's heart, was his body so much more to ask?

If they were alone, if there weren't waiters and heiresses and pot-bellied old men taking the sun, he would run his hands along Illya's shoulders, the invitation clear in his touch. Would Illya respond? Would his eyes become troubled and uncertain at the revelation? Would he say Napoleon's name in awe and wonderment?

Would he allow Napoleon to pull him to his feet and lead him to the cool shade beneath the vibrant blooms of the exotic shrubs. Would he lie down and gaze at Napoleon with hesitancy and expectation? Would he allow Napoleon to lie beside him? To touch him and arouse him? Would he come for Napoleon, his body wracked with pleasure?

Would he allow more? Allow Napoleon to feel the heat of his body as he took him? Would he curl against him afterwards, shattered and vulnerable? Entirely Napoleon's? Body and soul? All defences swept away?

Napoleon would hold him then. Hold the fragile being he had destroyed and would destroy again. Would Illya love him or hate him? Open himself in lust or servitude? If he had the courage he would find out.

Illya beneath him, hating him, icy fire in eyes that would never forgive him, allowing him repellant liberties from an iron sense of duty.

No he wasn't that man. Whatever the Russian gave, it must be freely. But how could a man born in chains have learned to give anything freely? How could he ever be sure of the Russian's consent? And yet Illya loved him and that was freely given. If Illya died for him it would be for love not duty.

Yet still he would wait, wait until the Russian made clear his desires. He would wait until the sands were dust beneath Illya's feet. Until those blue eyes held nothing but trust and longing. Until Illya found the courage to ask.

 

 

* * *

  
  
 

Illya, lungs wresting oxygen from the air and limbs singing from exertion, gazed at Napoleon. Napoleon slipped dark glasses back over enticing eyes and slid a little further down in his lounger. Illya expected at his side. And Illya would answer the expectation, as he answered all of Napoleon's expectations, diligently and obediently. Napoleon demanded so very little. Illya was an equal.

And yet he would have Napoleon make one demand, command him with soft serious eyes. Enchanting orbs which held the promise of delights beyond worldly pleasure.

Dark pools in which he could lose himself, give himself up to warm caresses and the heat of a man who made his passion an art.

He could feel the warmth of Napoleon's hands as they explored him, the touch of lips which had touched so many others, but never touched his.

He wanted the radiance of Napoleon's being against him, to strip away the peacock finery and find the man beneath. The man he already knew was there. The man who would risk everything to save him and yet hesitated to hold him.

His fault. Napoleon loved with abandon, if he loved not him then the fault must lie within him. A flaw he had been unable to disguise.

He dreamt sometimes that Napoleon commandeered the pleasure of his body. That he acquiesced to all that Napoleon would have him do and lay afterwards sore and used in his arms, knowing he had pleased Napoleon and filled with the need to please him again. Even like this. Even at the price of his own desires and wishes left neglected and unheeded.

But Napoleon had no use for coercion and would be angry at his dreams, unbidden though they were.

In waking he wished Napoleon was there, languid gaze heating his blood. He wanted to touch him, feel the pleasure ripple through him, use his tongue and his teeth until Napoleon was tipped into ecstasy.

He imagined Napoleon a wanton sprawl beneath him, writhing and sweating as he moved within him. Napoleon pleading for release. His own release a rush of heat into Napoleon's body. Napoleon coming for him. Breathless and beautifully dishevelled.

He would look into Napoleon's eyes then, knowing what he would find. Napoleon loved him and it would be there, a fierce devotion buried deep, layered over with insouciant charm and suave sophistication.

Illya hid behind his eyes, but Napoleon's eyes told everything. They were the reason you knew he was a good man, a better man than Illya. Whole and generously affectionate. A man who still trusted life.

Illya knew he was damaged. Knew it was the reason Napoleon hesitated, afraid of damaging him further. His scars denying him the one thing that would heal him.

If he were a braver man he would tell Napoleon to take him in defiance of his own fears and of Napoleon's. Make clear he could not give but that Napoleon could take. That he needed Napoleon to hear the question he could not ask.

That once past that he could breathe again, live again, be unafraid again. Until then he must wait, wait until Napoleon found the courage to take.

  
  


END


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